"I will never be a memory."

The words echoed through the ethereal battlefield as Sephiroth raised Masamune high above his head, its impossible length gleaming with malevolent energy. Cloud stood opposite him, Buster Sword gripped tight, both warriors suspended in that space between worlds where their eternal conflict played out again and again.

"This ends now, Sephiroth!" Cloud's voice rang with determination as he charged forward, his blade meeting Masamune in a clash that had occurred countless times before.

But this time was different.

The moment their swords connected, reality screamed. Light—not the gentle glow of holy magic, but something raw and violent—erupted between them. Sephiroth felt his very essence being torn apart, his consciousness scattered like leaves in a hurricane. The last thing he saw was Cloud's shocked expression mirroring his own as they were both consumed by the blinding radiance.

Then... nothing.

---

Consciousness returns slowly, like surfacing from the deepest ocean.

Eyes the color of mako energy flutter open, immediately squinting against unfamiliar light filtering through... windows? Real windows, with actual sunlight, not the artificial glow of the Planet's lifestream. The scent in the air is wrong—clean, sterile almost, lacking the metallic tang of Midgar or the ancient mustiness of the Forgotten City.

Sephiroth attempts to sit up, his body protesting with unfamiliar weakness. Where is his strength? His hand moves to where Masamune should rest, finding only empty air and soft fabric. Fabric? He looks down to see himself clothed in strange, comfortable garments—a simple shirt and loose pants, nothing like his leather coat or the flowing robes he'd claimed in his ascension.

The room around him is... peculiar. Small, intimate, filled with objects whose purposes escape him entirely. A black rectangle mounted on the wall, shelves lined with colorful rectangular objects, and scattered about are small, soft creatures that appear to serve no tactical purpose whatsoever.

But it's the framed photograph on the nearby table that makes him freeze entirely.

His own face stares back at him—but not as he knows himself. This version is smiling, genuinely smiling, with an arm wrapped around another person. A person whose face radiates warmth and happiness as they lean into his embrace. The Sephiroth in the photograph looks... content. Peaceful. Human.

What sorcery is this?

He reaches for the frame with a trembling hand, noting absently that his movements lack their usual predatory grace. The photograph feels real, solid, but the image makes no sense. When has he ever smiled like that? When has anyone ever looked at him with such... affection?

"What is this place?" The words escape him in a whisper, his voice sounding strange in the quiet room. Even his speech feels different—the resonant authority he'd cultivated seems diminished, more... mortal.

The longer he stares at the photograph, the more questions multiply in his mind. Who is this person beside him? Why do they look so happy?

And why, despite never seeing them before in his existence, does something deep in his chest stir when he looks at their smiling face?

Where am I? What has become of me? And... who is this person who appears to care for someone who looks exactly like me?